


Made Of Gold

by magicandmazes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Canon Compliant, Gen, Light Angst, Memories, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:04:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9412946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicandmazes/pseuds/magicandmazes
Summary: (or, at least, we like to think we are.)Brooklyn has changed. Steve certainly has.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There are worse things to do on a Thursday.

Steve Rogers has always loved Brooklyn.

 

**we walk upon these streets of old**

 

He isn't even meant to be here. There's a press conference in a few hours and a prep team is coming to the Tower beforehand, but he's stopped caring about being where he's supposed to be.

 

Dr Banner has even told him (even though _he's not that sort of doctor_ ) that he probably shouldn't come here for a while, not until he's completely used to the 21st century. Even so, he couldn't resist the longing to come back and see his old stomping ground, as Clint put it. Not only that, but he just had to escape the walking pop-culture reference that is Tony Stark. 

 

Everything that he took for granted - the language, the price of a loaf of bread, the picture frames, even the Dodgers (Clint still hasn't deleted his reaction to the news on his phone) - is strange and bizarre to somebody who still doesn't really know what _plastic surgery_ actually is (it might have come up in a conversation with Tony). 

 

So maybe he's a masochist, for wanting to see this Brooklyn so soon after his awakening from the ice. As Tony says,  _whatever._

 

**where hate and love would once unfold**

 

He's getting closer and closer to his old neighbourhood, and it's getting difficult to breathe.

 

Memories of home, school, alleys. Long hours at the dance hall. Selling newspapers in the cold. Getting sick, really sick, all the time. Endless bullies that thought it was hilarious to beat up little kids on the way home. Sketching pretty dames with their friends in the park. Showering quickly before the hot water ran out. Wondering if he was going to end up as the third wheel on another of Buck's double dates.   

Bucky.

It's always Bucky.

Bucky is everywhere. He's in the uneven pavement that sticks up in odd places, the sleeve of a jacket disappearing around a corner, the slamming of an open window from an apartment up above. He's just around the corner, in the door way, down the street. He's always  _there,_ sliding in and out of shadows - close,  _so close,_ but never close enough to touch.

 

It's been less than two months.

It's been nearly seventy years.

 

**but even though our hands are cold**

 

He's got to keep moving. He's got to keep going, going, towards, away, anywhere. These streets were not made for this powerful man, a symbol of equality and freedom, big enough to fight off the bullies once and for all.

Instead, they were made for the skinny boy that coughed and choked on thin air, who tried to fight off the bullies no matter how weak he was, who died in 1943 in exchange for a certain Man With a Plan.

That skinny, sickly boy makes himself heard, though. He still lives on, inside the chest of the man who can pull doors off their hinges and knock out a man with a single punch.

Strength is good, but heart is better. And now he's got both.

Can this man really belong here, in Brooklyn, any more? Maybe, maybe, maybe, but he'll have to keep walking to find out.

 

**we like to think we're made of gold.**

 

 

There are worse things to do on a Thursday.

 

 


End file.
